Stiff Memories
by Killer Kueen
Summary: Chrys hated the idea of tracking down a man she didn't believe was her father. But only months after her mom's death, that's exactly what she finds herself doing. Will she survive Las Vegas, or will her mother's dark past cloud her future?
1. Chapter 1

A/N: I know, this isn't the most original idea in the world, but I can only hope I do it well enough for it to become so. Ill warn you now, some of the information (mainly the things in upcoming chapters) might be faulty, but it's only a story, so I'm not too worried

I wold love if you reviewed and told me what you think.

As always, thanks for reading.

...

It was a hot day. My bare legs were sticking to the leather in Mark's car, meaning I had to peel them off every time I changed position. I could feel sweat gather in a pool in my bra. I could feel it slowly dripping down my back. I felt like I was boiling in a stew, never mind the fact I was in shorts and a tank top.

I wish Mark would hurry up. The engine had only been turned off for ten minutes, but already the cool air had been overtaken by the heat of summer. The hot air leaked through the windows, suffocating both of us.

I decided I would add this to The List. Another reason why I didn't want to be here: the heat. It never got cold in Las Vegas. At least, it never got cold enough.

Mark finally opens the driver side door and pulls himself into the SUV as I'm digging for my journal in my bag. My hand brushes against a hard cover, and I pull it out. It's a pale blue diary with one of those cheap locks that anyone could snap open with a toothpick. My breath catches. This wasn't my journal. _When did I pack this?_

"Ready to go?" Mark asks, starting the engine.

I shove the book back into my bag. I don't have the patience for that right now. I just nod curtly as we pull out of the gas station.

Mark fiddles with the radio, unfamiliar with the stations offered here. I watch him through the corner of my eye. He's in his full lawyer garb – a tailored three-piece suit with a tie that doesn't match but still manages to look professional. His hair is parted the way my mom liked it.

It has to be hot under all those layers of cloths, but there's not a trace of sweat on his brow. There must be a course that's required to take in law school. _How to keep an eerily calm poker face_ would be a good name. I can't imagine it's good business for a lawyer to lose his cool in the middle of a trial.

He lands on some station that's playing some pop music with bouncing beats and a chorus that's repeated fifty-six times before the song finally ends. Just because I'm a teenage girl, he assumes I like this sort of crap. I don't, but I'm not in the mood to put up a fuss. Besides, the fact that he's trying to make me happy (regardless of whether or not it's working) means something. He hates this music just as much as I do.

I lean over and turn on the AC full blast. Why the hell is it so hot here? I hate the heat. I wish we could have gone somewhere where it's snowing. Cold air is so much easier to breath. Which reminds me; I still need to add this atrocity to The List.

"– don't know what you plan on doing, but just remember," Had he been talking this whole time? "This isn't a friendly town for a pretty sixteen year-old."

"Seventeen," I correct.

"Not until November. That's still a long way off."

"Whatever. Doesn't really matter, anyway."

He sighs. He tries to keep his patience with me. God help me, how he tries.

"I know you didn't want to come, Chrys. But your mother specifically asked for us to at least _try._" He looks over at me. "You would have regretted not knowing."

I roll my eyes, not wanting to admit that he's probably right.

"I know this is the first you've heard about him, but it's all the more reason to grab this bull by the horn, so to speak."

Mark thought that just because Mom didn't like to talk about my father, I was ignorant about the whole subject. I wasn't. I knew Mom loved him more than anything, that she liked to believe that he loved her, and I knew that she never stopped loving him, even after marrying Mark. I knew his name too, or at least, the name she gave me all those years ago when I was first getting curious about where I came from. Nicholas Stokes.

Mom was convinced I came from his loins, but I wasn't so sure. After Mom died, Mark decided to make completely sure (she had it in her will that I was to stop everything and track him down) and so here we were, in Sin City, looking for the man who shared a matching pair of DNA.

"He works the night-shift," Mark says, still trying to get a conversation going.

"All the more reason not to live with him."

My stepfather sighs. I wonder if he'll be glad to get rid of me.

...


	2. Chapter 2

A/N - I'm very sorry it's taken so long to upload. The beginning of the school year is not a good time to start a new story.

Anyway, thanks so much to everyone who's subscribed and commented. I really appreciate the feedback.

Hopefully it won't take me two weeks to post again, but sadly, I can't make any promises.

Now, without further ado, I present chapter 2.

...

I throw my suitcase onto the bed while breathing in the sweet air the A/C is pumping out. This place even has a pool. If I don't have to take another step outside, this shouldn't be a bad couple of days.

But of course, I have to. "Ready to go yet, Chrys?" I ignore the hint of impatience as I dig for my earring.

"Did you bring in my purse?"

"Why would I bring in_ your_ purse?"

"It was just a question, Mark. Excuse me for thinking you're a Good Samaritan."

I can practically hear his teeth grind together.

"Cut the crap, Chrys. We need to go. We're already late."

I stop riffling through my cloths. "And I can't find my earring. I can't go anywhere with only one earring."

"Than don't wear any," Mark says through gritted teeth.

"That would ruin this whole outfit." I know full well the earring I'm looking for is currently residing on the floor of my bathroom, about a trillion miles away. I just don't want to go to dinner with my new daddy. Talk about nerve wracking.

"Chrys, for the love of God, if you don't get out here soon-"

"Fine! Fine. I'll take it out," I yank on the loop and rip the earring out of my ear. I try to convince myself the pain is worth it. "and go commando for the evening. Happy?"

"That's not what 'commando' means."

"Whatever," I scowl. "Are we leaving or not?"

Mark pinches the bridge of his nose. "Chrys, you need to drop the attitude."

"I don't have an attitude, Mark!"

"Just go down to the car." He says slowly, trying very hard not to yell. If I weren't so anxious, I'd try to apologize.

Instead, I slip on my flip-flops and head to the car. The discovery that I'd be meeting Mr. Stokes sooner rather than later has really got me on edge.

Under normal circumstances, it wouldn't be such a big deal, but these weren't normal circumstances. I mean, jeez, my mom was so sure this guy is my long lost father.

I hate myself for it, but I find myself actually caring what this guy thinks of me. Usually, public opinion isn't high on my list of concerns. It doesn't help that regardless of how hard I try to ignore the thought – or worse, the hope – that Stokes is actually my father, it keeps creeping up in my mind that maybe my mother wasn't as crazy as I thought she was.

I slam my car door out of a mixture of unjustified annoyance at Mark and the army of ants that are currently trying to crawl up my stomach and into my throat. He climbs into the passenger seat silently, which doesn't help my mood.

He was like this when Mom died; cool and calculated, making sure you couldn't see the jumble of emotions beneath the surface. It has to be another lawyer trick.

The restaurant that acts as a rendezvous point is a local Chinese place. There's a long wait, and I hope that Stokes has already arrived and gotten a table. All my anger at Mark had been left behind at the hotel, and been replaced with guilt. I'm sure I'll get over it though.

When we walk through the doors, I hear someone call my name. I turn to find the source, and I see a man sitting at a table by a window. He's smiling as he waves his hand, just in case I missed him in the crowd.

My legs move toward him on their own. He's still smiling when I reach him, and he offers his hand. I clasp it in my cold grip, hoping he won't mind. The light reflects off of his glasses, making them look opaque. There's a gap in between his two front teeth. For some reason this calms me.

"Good evening, Chrysanthemum," he says in a smooth voice. "Unfortunately, Nick can't be here tonight, so he asked me if I would fill in for him. My name is Dr. Ray Langston, and it's so good to meet you."

...


	3. Chapter 3

It was hot in the restaurant. As I slid into the booth across from Dr. Langston, I could feel my legs instantly adhere to the faux leather. The minute I stepped into my bedroom back home, I was going to throw out every single pair of shorts I owned.

The doctor smiled at me pleasantly, and my stomach was starting to react from the smell that was seeping through the kitchen. I had originally been planning to just nibble on an egg roll, maybe swipe some fried rice from Mark, but I was starving, and the food here smelled so good. Much better, in fact, than the slop they served back in Rhode Island.

"I'm sorry Nick couldn't meet you tonight," Dr. Langston apologized again. "He was called out to Henderson a few hours ago."

Mark adjusts himself next to me. "I was told he was going to take the night off tonight," I can just tell he assumes he can feel me stewing beside him, but he's just imagining it. I'm actually a little relieved.

"He was on call," Dr. Langston says in an even voice. "The Undersheirff got whiff of your arrival, and requested he be sent out."

Mark raised an eyebrow. "He doesn't approve?"

"Not in the slightest." He smiles. "He's worried that this might stain the reputation of the crime lab."

My stepfather snorts. "Silly thing to worry about."

The doctor nods his agreement, before turning his attention to me. "So, Chrysanthemum-"

"Chrys," I interrupt. "Just Chrys."

He nods again. "Okay, Chrys. How are you liking Las Vegas?"

"It's too hot."

He chuckles. "Yes, it can get in the high temperatures here."

"She's made a whole list of what's wrong with Sin City," Mark mentions with a smile, before I can say anything. "What else don't you like?" He begins to count on his fingers. "It's too far away from home. It's full of tourists–"

"The lights are too bright at night," Dr. Langston adds with a grin, and I decide I kind of like this guy.

"The food smells really good, though," I say, eyeing a waitress passing with a full tray.

"Yes, this is one of my favorite restaurants. When Nick told me this was where the meeting was, I was more than willing to take his place."

I smile, but don't say anything in return. Our waiter comes to take our order.

After he leaves, Mark asks, "So, Dr. Langston, I must know. Is Mr. Stokes requiring a blood test?"

I snort into my diet Pepsi.

Ignoring me, my step-father tries again. "It's just that we only have Rosie's word to go on. In my opinion, a blood test might be the easiest solution."

The doctor nods. "While I'm sure Nick is prepared to simply take Mrs. Dimondale's word on Chrys's parentage-"

"Hamilton," I interrupt without thinking.

Dr. Langston pauses. "I'm sorry?"

"Hamilton," I repeat. "My mom never took Mark's name."

Mark clears his throat. "She wasn't an old fashioned woman," he takes a sip of water. "Rosie was very free-thinking."

"Let me just say," Langston says, very carefully, "that I am very sorry for your loss."

I start blowing tiny bubbles into my drink, suddenly not in the mood for conversation or Chinese food. Mark clears his throat again.

"Yes, well. You were saying?"

There's a pause as Langston readjusts himself. "I think all Nick needs to know for him to be satisfied is that Chrys's mother says he is the father. The under sheriff, however, is not so easily convinced."

"Will he be demanding a blood test, then?"

"I believe so, yes," He smiles tightly. "He thinks that with the lab already so full of scandal, your arrival," he nods at me, "could be the straw that broke the camels back."

I see our waiter walking over to our table with a tray as Mark considers this. "Better safe than sorry, I suppose."

Langston nods. "Exactly," he says, as the waiter lays down our food. "He's pretty close to allowing the DNA test to be administered at the lab, instead of at a hospital."

Mark reaches for the soy sauce. "And why is that?" he asks.

"Just anxious for the results, I guess."

"You think this wouldn't be that big of a deal," I say absently, helping myself to an egg roll.

"Well, in my experience, Conrad enjoys making a spectacle of things."

"So when will we be able to meet with Nick?" I ask.

Langston considers this. "Well, in all honesty, I'm not entirely sure." He smiles at something he sees in my expression. "Conrad willing, hopefully soon."

Mark snorts. "He can't really keep them apart forever."

"Something we all realize, I assure you," the doctor says in an even voice.

"Well, be sure to have him call me when he gets back into town," he wipes his mouth with his napkin.

"Of course. I'm surprised he hasn't called yet, actually."

Mark reaches for the check, which the waiter had strategically placed in the middle of the table. Dr. Langston reaches it before him, however and with a smile, says, "It's on Nick tonight."

At this, Mark smiles too. "Perhaps then we should order dessert. Chrys," he bumps me with his shoulder. "Think you could go for some green tea ice cream?"

I blink. "I don't like green tea…"

Langston flags down our waiter. "Well, you've obviously never had green tea ice cream before. It's a great treat in heat like this."

"Well," I say, sitting up in the booth straighter. "If it's cold, I'll eat it."

Mark laughs. "I thought as much."

I peel my legs from the faux leather beneath me. I wince. Ice cream seems just what I need right now.

...

Ha HA! An update! Woot.

So my computer got a virus, but I found a way around the corrupted files that this site wouldn't let me upload. Mind you, that isn't the entire reason I haven't posted...

Anyway, I hope you enjoyed this installment. Also, it was brought to my attention by Mma63 that Nick is in his 40's. While this is true, I would just like to take the time to say that for the sake of this story, he needs to be in his early 30's. I know this is unrealistic, but he can't be any older for the plot that I'm trying to establish.

Thanks so much for reading. 'Till next time ~*


	4. Chapter 4

I was waiting outside the restaurant while Langston and Mark finished paying. The night was warm, which I hated, but it was still a considerable improvement from what it was earlier.

I yawn. I am ready to sink into the mattress back at the hotel and sleep until next week.

"You look lost."

I turn, startled, in the direction of the voice to find a sandy-haired teenager smiling at me. He's cute, but in that 'I don't quite know what I'm doing' sort of way. He's pretty tall, too, at least six feet.

"Need a ride somewhere?"

I look at him blankly. "No," I say carefully, "I don't. I'm waiting for my stepfather. He should be out any minute."

"Oh," He's leaning against a light pole, hands in his pockets. Dusk has fallen over the town, casting long shadows up and down the street. He isn't quite standing in the soft glow of the light, but I can still easily read the band logo on his shirt. At least, I can see the faux bloodstains and the angry faces glaring at the world.

"Do you?" I ask out of obligation. I regret it the moment the words leave my mouth. This is exactly what Mark wanted - driving around some punk I met on the street.

"Need a ride?" He smiles again, showing white teeth. I like that they weren't straight. "Nay, good lady."

"'Good Lady?'"

He must see something in my face, because he laughs. "What? I took you for a renaissance lover."

I roll my eyes. Where on earth had that come from? I'm about to comment on his lack of musical taste, when I hear Dr. Langston clear his throat.

I turn around, expecting him to say something to me, but he doesn't even glance in my direction.

"Alec," he says, addressing him. "It's not often we see you out this late."

Alec's demeanor has changed almost instantly. His easy, nonchalant manner has evaporated into the warm night air.

"I guess I just needed a walk," he says with a shrug. "To clear my head."

Langston gives him an easy nod. "Of course. Is your brother coming to pick you up?"

He blows a long breath, while he decides how to answer. Even I can tell he's stalling. "He'll be here."

"When?" Langston asks him calmly, almost smiling.

"About an hour or so," Alec shrugs again. He smiles lightly, flashing the crooked teeth again. "I don't mind waiting." Something about Langston makes him agitated, but he's forcing himself to remain calm, to put the easygoing mask back on.

He shoots a look in my direction. "I'll see you around, sweetheart."

He lumbers down the street, in the opposite direction of our hotel. Langston calls out a goodbye as we watch his retreating form.

"Who's he?" I'm slightly surprised Langston knew him.

"His older brother was a former student of mine. They're both very bright young men." His lips purse slightly, like he's just swallowed something sour.

I'm about to ask him about it, but Mark walks up behind me, clamping his hand down on my shoulder, and says, "You forgot your fortune cookie," he presses into my hand.

"Thanks," I mutter, eyes still on Alec's retreating form.

Mark shakes hands with Langston. "Thanks for meeting us, doctor." He says. "Be sure to thank Mr. Stokes for paying, too."

"Please, call me Ray." He smiles over at me. "Nick should be home late tonight, if not early tomorrow. I'll have him give you a call, maybe meet for lunch."

I nod. All thoughts of mysterious boys dribble from my mind. I try not to look nervous.

"We eagerly await your call," Mark is grinning, hand still on my shoulder. "Good night, Ray."

"Good night. Good luck, Chrys."

I thank him, and walk with Mark to the car.

...

I ate too much for dinner. Heartburn wages war with nausea and I get dizzy when I sit up.

...At least that's what I'm trying to tell Mark this morning. He got a call earlier from Nick. From what he's told me, Nick apologized profusely for standing us up yesterday, and would like to meet us for lunch.

Dr. Langston warned me this would happen. At least being nauseous wasn't too much of a stretch.

"Man up, Chrys." Marks good mood from last night is non-existent. "You'll have to meet him sooner or later."

I try burrowing even further in my sheets, and mumble something about cruel and unusual punishments.

"Enough of this," he snaps. He claws at the comforter and flings it off me. He grabs the sheets too, and I'm left lying there in my pajamas, writhing in the sudden light.

"It burns!" I cry.

"Stop being so dramatic."

I keep my eyes scrunched tight (the natural light shinning in from the window is killer on my eyes) but stop wiggling. I sit up. "I refuse to go."

I feel Mark sit on the bed next to me. When I open my eyes, spots dance around the room. I lie back down, staring at the ceiling while I wait for my eyes to adjust.

"Why are you so opposed to this?" He asks. Hints of exasperated anger are still present in his voice, but at least he seems calmer now. "And don't tell me 'just because,' because that's bull shit. Something's up."

"What makes you so sure?"

"You used to talk about meeting your father all the time, Chrys."

"Yeah, back when I was ten and believed I would actually meet him some day."

He doesn't say anything. I chance a peek, and sure enough, he's giving me a look. "What?"

"Chrysanthemum Carol Ann Hamilton," he says, eyes hard. "Why the hell do you think we traveled 1200 miles from home into a desert? For kicks?"

I consider him. He has nice eyes, and a tight mouth. Last night was one of the few times I've seen him act like anything but a lawyer. 'I have her diary," I say quietly like I'm telling him a secret. I kind of am.

"Whose diary?"

"Mom's."

He pauses for a second. "Rosie didn't have one."

"She did," I insist. "a long time ago at least. It was when she got pregnant with me." I hesitate. "When she met my father."

"Oh," Now it's Mark's turn to look at the ceiling. "So is that why you don't want to meet him? Because of what Rosie wrote in there?"

I nod.

"Was he...abusive, or something?"

"He was a peach." I say flatly.

"You're not telling me something."

"No secrets here," I move to the end of the bed, where Mark has thrown my sheets.

"It's kind of my job to know when people are lying, in case you've forgotten," Mark says as he climbs off the bed.

"I'm not going," I say, as if this final statement will make everything final.

He sighs. "Fine," he throws me the remote to the TV. "But no ordering movies or room service," now he glares at me. "And no leaving the hotel. If you need something call my cell."

I pretend to consider his offer. "Sounds fair," I try to keep myself from sounding too relieved.

He pauses at the door, his hand on the handle. "And, when I get back, you're going to explain to me why you're so against this whole ordeal, got it?"

"Mark, now that's - " but the slam of the door cuts me off. I roll my eyes, and fall back on my bed. I wasn't telling him anything, on that I was adamant.

I replay the conversation in my head. I have only read my mother's journal once, which was right after she died. I search for my backpack, looking for the light blue covered notebook that held my mom's hopes and dreams. Well, it at least held her thoughts.

After I find it, I push pillows up against the headboard so I have something to lean against. I open the book, and read the first page.

_He bought me a journal. It's a light blue, the exact color of the sky. There's a lock, so my nosey roommate can't read it, he says. Nick thinks of everything._

_He is the first person not to buy me roses. He doesn't get me flowers of any kind, as a matter of fact. I love him for it._

"_Any flower I got you would pale in comparison," he said, gently bumping my shoulder. "Besides, you're already a rose."_

_He is such a cheese ball sometimes, but he is also the single most perfect person I have met in my entire life. My mother was right – college boys really are better._

…

I stop reading. In my family, there was a tradition to name the little girls after flowers. After pretty things. I remember my grandmother's name was Lily, and her mother's was Jasmine. My mom, Rose, absolutely hated it.

I never gave my mother flowers either. She was always asking me not to. When I questioned her, she would say simply that chrysanthemums and roses made enough of a bouquet for her. I'd nod my head and pretend I understood her.

I shut her diary. I have read her words more times than I care to count. I have analyzed everything she wrote, hoping to better understand the choices she made, the paths she took.

I realize my whole body is shaking, and I'm cold. Imagine – it's the middle of summer in the freaking desert, and I'm chilly. Mark must have turned up the AC before he left.

I change out of my pajamas into an infernal pair of shorts and a loose t-shirt. As I do so, I consider a few things. First, I have something Nick doesn't – Mom's thoughts and feelings. Second – I have a feeling Nick isn't my father. Third – Nick deserves to hear it from me, and Mark is right. I have to face him sooner or later. I have a feeling Dr. Langston won't be able to come to my rescue again.

I slip into my flip-flops and ignoring Mark's ultimatum, I quietly and purposefully slip out of the hotel room.

...

Dear Readers:

So I have written the last part of this chapter about a hundred times, and I'm still not too sure about the results. I hope it turned out okay, and that all you readers out there understand the gist of the plot line a little more (as if there's any doubt).

Thanks for sticking with me. I appreciate all the feedback.

Till next time ~*


	5. Chapter 5

By the time I reach the hotel lobby, I came to the realization that I have no idea where Mark and Nick actually are. I reach for my cell phone, but notice a suspiciously empty pocket. I see a flash of it sitting on the dresser in the room. Next to my room key. Brilliant.

Annoyed, I walk to the reception desk, hoping I won't have to wait for Mark to get a new key. The lady stationed there is the same one who checked us in. Shelly, I think her name was.

She smiles kindly at me, saying, "You're stepfather said you'd be down." Before I can say anything, she hands me a piece of paper, folded in half. "He said to give you this when I saw you."

I thank her, and walk away, opening the note. Of course Mark knew I'd change my mind. It has to be another lawyer trick.

_Chrys,_

_I've agreed to meet Nick at the diner on the corner of 2__nd__ street and Collin's Drive. It's only a few blocks away from the hotel; just go east towards the McDonald's, turn left at the gas station, and you'll practically be on top of it._

_Be careful. If anything happens, call me._

_-Mark_

I feel uneasy. This has to be a test.. Mark made it perfectly clear he didn't like the idea of me out on my own. Regardless, I wad the paper into a ball and shove it into my pocket. I'm not about to begrudge Mark the change of heart.

I step outside, into the sweltering afternoon air. This diner shouldn't be too hard to find.

…

…or at least that's what I thought an hour ago. I found the McDonald's, but I must not have turned at the right gas station, because now I am hopelessly lost in an unfamiliar city with no cell phone to save me.

I sit down on a bench, at the bus stop, resting my poor, tired feet. I'm parched, ravenous and in a foul mood. Mark should have drawn a map, or left breadcrumbs or something.

I watch the traffic go by, angry that my stepfather isn't really to blame. After all, my mom always said I couldn't walk out of a paper bag without someone holding my hand.

A bus pulls up. I wave it on.

Someone sits down next to me. I give the man a sideways glance. He looks middle-aged, with dark hair and dark eyes. He's not looking at me, choosing instead to give his attention to the newspaper in his hands.

I ignore him, and assume he's waiting for the next bus. When it pulls up, however, neither of us moves. When a third bus pulls up, I wave this one on too.

It's been about twenty minutes (and two more buses) by the time I hear him speak. "You look lost," I glance at him. He's smiling and I briefly appreciate the laugh lines on his face, but that feeling is squashed almost immediately.

I stare at him, annoyed. "Says who?"

"That was the fifth bus you didn't board. It makes me think you don't know where you're going." He goes back to his newspaper.

"Of course I know where I'm going," I scoff. "I'm going to meet my father."

"You don't sound too happy about it."

"I'm not," I lean forward, massaging in between my eyes where I can already feel a headache blooming. "He's not my father. He can't be." I feel my face go red. I hadn't meant to say that, and certainly not to a stranger.

The man next to me doesn't say anything.

"Wouldn't your mother know something like that?" He asks, after what feels like long pause.

"My mother's dead."

When my mom first got sick, Mark made me go to all sorts of specialists for grief counseling. They all told me the same thing: the sooner I come to terms with what's happening, the sooner I can overcome my grief. They didn't mention anything about spilling my guts to strangers I happened to meet at bus stops in hostile towns, however.

There's another lull in the conversation. "I'm sorry to hear that."

Instead of answering, I stare straight ahead, waiting for the next bus that I'm not going to ride.

"He seems like a really nice guy," I say slowly. I like this, I have to admit. I like the neutrality of talking to a random stranger who isn't, and will never be, an actual part of my life.

"So you've met him?" There's some hidden tone in his voice, almost like he's making a joke at my expense. Sure enough, when I look at him, he's got a huge grin plastered to his face.

I purse my lips. I want to hit him. "No, and I don't really want to either."

His grin fades. "Oh. Why not?"

"Because he's not my father."

"You're sure?"

"Yep."

He nods. Turns a page of the newspaper loudly.

I sigh. "What?" I ask in a monotone.

He looks at me again. "Did your mother say the man was your father?"

"Yes, but she's wrong."

He gives me another crinkly smile. "I'm pretty sure she would know better than anyone."

"She was delusional."

This earns a raised eyebrow. "And why is that?"

I pause, ready to tell him what I haven't told anyone. What my mother never told anyone. I only know about it because I found her diary buried in the attic. I rub my shoulder, contemplating. Secrets are so heavy.

"She met him in college," I look at him out of the corner of my eye. "She was a freshman, and he was a senior, or something. She didn't really say. I just know that he had a job offer that he was taking when he graduated, which was a couple months into their relationship."

"Is that what split them up?" he asks, innocently.

"Who ever said they split?"

"Sweetheart, your sitting on a bench, obviously avoiding a trip you don't want to take to meet a man you've never met before, because your mother told you you should."

"Yeah, I guess it is a little obvious," I sigh, "but no. That's not what split them up." I start playing with my hair, start winding it into a corkscrew on my finger. I've become aware of the fact that I'm fidgeting, hardly able to keep still. I am suddenly full to the brim with nervous energy. And ridiculous excitement. I have never told anyone this story before, not even my best friend back in Rhode Island.

"Her mother was dying, though when my mom took the trip to see her, she didn't know it at the time."

"You're grandmother was sick?"

"Yeah, with pneumonia. Bad case of it, too from what I heard."

"Oh," the man folds his newspaper up, not even pretending to still read it. "That's a shame."

"She died before I was born." I shrug. "I never knew her. Apparently she and my mom didn't really get along."

He nods. "So that's why she left? Her mother died?" He says it absently, like he's no longer talking to me. "I assume she was the one who left him," he says quickly, when he sees the confused look on my face.

"Yeah, she was," I say hesitantly. Was that obvious too? "She dumped him, and dropped out of college."

"Is that why you think this mystery man isn't you father? Because it doesn't sound like your mother dropped out because she got pregnant."

"Well, when it was made official, she did, but not when she was with my grandmother, no." I say. "She never told the guy she was even pregnant. She just…went away."

"So why do you dislike him so much?"

"I don't. He's just not my father."

"How?"

My palms are sweating. My forehead has a dull pulsing ache. I have to tell someone. "She was at the hospital, visiting her mother, and she went home late one night. She had already spent three nights there, apparently, and the nurses convinced her to go home for a proper rest.

"She was having trouble unlocking her car. Couldn't find her keys, or something."

I hesitate. I can feel the man's eyes boring into the side of my head.

"When she finally unearthed them, someone came up behind her, and forced her into her car, and…and then he left." I chance a look at him. The man is staring straight ahead, not looking at me anymore. His jaw is clenched.

I don't say anything. He doesn't either. Another bus pulls up.

As it pulls away, the man says in a very low voice, "You think that scum of the earth is your father?"

"Well, yeah, I mean, she found out she was pregnant a month later."

He looks exasperated. Angry. "Did she tell anyone?"

I shake my head, "My grandmother died a few days after, and she just wanted everything to disappear."

"Disappear?" He pinches the bridge of his nose, like he has a headache too. "Then you were born and everything was okay again, right?"

"Something like that, yeah. She met my stepfather when I was about ten, and that helped a lot," I chew on my lip. "She never gave up on him though."

"You're father?"

"He is _not _my father," He's smiling, and I can't help but smile too. I feel so much better, getting something like this off my chest. "Should I tell Mark?"

"Your stepfather? I think it would be better if he knew something like this, yeah. But it's not like you have to take my advice."

"I think I will." I stretch my arms. "I can't be a surly teen with no excuse forever. I might as well get started on being a surly teen with a very valid one."

"You really should meet him, at least. You're not-father," He runs a hand through his hair. The sunlight glitters on his watch.

A watch. Watches tell time. I wonder what time it is. I ask.

He glances at his wrist. "Almost three."

My jaw drops. This is bad. This is very, very bad.

"What's wrong, sweetheart?"

"Mark is going to skin me alive and bury me in the locker room of our hotel." I jump to my feet. "I am _so _dead."

The man stands up too. I'm surprised to find that he's only a few inches taller than I am. "Can I help? It's the least I can do."

"Where is the Tall Pines Hotel?" I ask, frantic. I am so dead. Mark is never going to let me out again.

"A few blocks that way," he points. I start walking, and almost miss what he says. "Turn left at that intersection, it's a straight shot from there." A pause. "Maybe I should walk with you," he calls.

"No, that would piss him off even more," I throw the words over my shoulder. Showing up escorted with a complete stranger is not going to make my stepfather any easier to deal with.

My legs stop hurrying down the street. I turn around, so I'm looking at the man I just spent a good hour talking to. His hands are in his pockets, and he's looking at me with an odd expression I can't read. "Thanks," because I don't know what else to say, because I don't know how else to express how grateful I am to him for just sitting and listening to me, I wave. "Thanks so much!"

He waves back. He smiles. I turn, and hurry down the street. I really need to talk with Mark.

...

I'm trying hard to keep dear Chrys away from Mary Sue status, but it's harder than I thought. I hope she's a little bearable. Anyway, thanks for reading. A new chapter should be up within the week.


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